


she was alive (she was caught on fire)

by badritual



Series: Exchange Fic [5]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Community: swrarepairs, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Not Star Wars: Return of the Jedi Compliant, Oral Sex, POV Oola, Rebellion, swrarepairs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:20:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21629005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badritual/pseuds/badritual
Summary: Whispers of the rebellion float through the reinforced walls of Jabba’s palace. Once she’s free, she’s going to join them.
Relationships: Oola/Luke Skywalker
Series: Exchange Fic [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1705675
Comments: 18
Kudos: 52
Collections: Star Wars Rare Pairs Exchange 2019





	she was alive (she was caught on fire)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [evilmouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmouse/gifts).



> For evilmouse! Your sign-up concluded with "let's show Oola a good time," and that's what I tried to do! Hope you enjoy this! 
> 
> This is a bit of an AU twist on the Jabba’s palace scenes in ROTJ, replacing the rancor scenes. 
> 
> Thanks to a Mysterious Friend for the beta.
> 
> Title from "Coughing Colors," by Tilly and the Wall.

Oola tells them—the new girls, Jabba’s new pets—stories sometimes. Stories about the world outside the walls of Jabba’s palace. Sometimes they don’t believe her, they can’t conceive of a world that remains untouched by Jabba’s fat, greasy fingers. That there are places uncorrupted by the stench of crime and decay. Sometimes even Oola can’t believe it herself. 

She’d come from such a place. Ryloth. The memory of Ryloth lingers, like a glittering gem in a sea of black, the unattainable jewel of her dreams. 

Oola was very young when she left—when she was stolen—but she remembers green. So much green. She still remembers how the soft, supple leaves and the rough bark of the trees felt under her fingertips. The harsh, windblown deserts of Tatooine serve as a stark, constant reminder of what she’s lost. It wasn’t safe to venture out too far from the cave where her family had lived, but even that was more bearable than Tatooine. 

Oola asks the new girls for their stories. Sometimes they’re too afraid, too timid. Sometimes, they’re suspicious of her intentions, they think her a spy for Jabba’s court. They think she’s plying them with kindness to scour their secrets from their souls. Oola spits in the dirt at the mere thought of aligning herself with Jabba. 

Their stories remind her of who she’d been before she came to this glittering, opulent, desolate prison. 

Oola won’t let herself forget who she once was. She isn’t going to die on this strange planet, as some warlord’s slave. 

Whispers of the rebellion float through the reinforced walls of Jabba’s palace. Once she’s free, she’s going to join them. 

Oola is tired. Jabba’s danced her nearly to pieces already, and yet he still demands for her to perform. Her feet are bleeding, leaving red streaks in the dirt. She’s just off beat, stepping here when she should be stepping there. Twirling there when she should be twirling here. The other girls cast her pitying glances, and more than once she feels a hand or a paw or a tentacle on her, steadying her or maneuvering her into the correct position. 

When she stumbles to her knees in the dirt, however, Jabba can’t abide that. He lets out a fierce roar and flips a nearby table, a chalice of blood-red wine flying across the room. 

The band pauses for a moment before resuming, incongruously cheery music fluttering from their instruments as if nothing out of the ordinary is going on. And, perhaps, nothing _is_ out of the ordinary. It _is_ Jabba’s court, after all.

He yanks at the chains around Oola’s neck—chains of Aurodium, only the finest for Jabba’s girls—and drags her closer. His heat and his stench bear down on her, overwhelm her senses until all she can feel or smell is Jabba.

“ _Dance, or you won’t eat for a week!_ ” Jabba’s fat tongue slithers out of his mouth toward her, like a snake. It drags across Oola’s cheek, leaving a slimy streak trailing down her neck. “ _I’ll lock you in your room with nothing!_ ”

Oola grasps futilely at the chains linking her to her captor. “ _No, no, I won’t—_ ”

“ _Guards_ ,” Jabba roars, tossing Oola to the dirt like a rag-doll. “ _Lock her in her cell. Inform the dungeonmaster that she is not to be fed for a week._ ”

“ _I’ll die! You can’t!_ ” Oola tries to dodge the guards’ claw-like grip, to no avail. “ _Please, merciful Jabba. I will dance!_ ”

“ _Take her away._ ” Jabba flicks a dismissive hand her way.

Jabba’s sentinel tighten their cold, clammy grip on Oola’s arms. 

Most prisoners don’t return from Jabba’s dungeons. They start to drag her off and Oola digs her heels into the dirt, but it’s no use. 

She can hear the disappointed murmur of the revelers at her back. They’d probably been hoping for a show. 

Knowing what waits for her in Jabba’s cold, tomblike dungeon, Oola almost wishes he’d let the rancor have her.

Some hours later, Oola comes to on a bare cot, a throbbing knot of pain at the base of her skull. She reaches back and prods gently at the lump that’s formed there, between her lekku. When she brings her hand down, her fingers are sticky with drying blood. 

Oola looks around, trying to assess her surroundings, but it’s nearly impossible. The windowless room is small and dark, barely more than a prison cell. She gets up and circles the room, her hand pressed against cool, damp stone, until her fingers find a seam in the wall. A door. 

With a tired sigh, Oola slides down the length of the wall and lands on her knees with a weary thud. 

“Who’s there?” a voice whispers out, echoing off the unforgiving stone. 

Oola tenses, fingers scrabbling along the broken stone underneath her, but she finds nothing she can use to defend herself. 

The creature speaks a language she doesn’t recognize at first—before she realizes she hasn’t heard it since she was a girl on Ryloth. 

_Basic. The humans spoke Basic. This creature is a human. Another slave, like me_. 

She calls back, softly, because Jabba has spies everywhere, “I am Oola.”

A figure rises, a robe falling to its—his?—feet, as he strides toward her. Oola doesn’t feel afraid, but she cowers back against the wall anyway.

Faint slivers of light peek in from gaps in the stone walls, dusting his features with moonlight. 

“Oola,” he echoes, crouching low, so that they’re eye-level. “I’m Luke Skywalker.”

 _Luke Skywalker_. Oola’s heard that name. “You— _you_ ,” she gasps, darting away from the wall to him, reaching for him. 

She’s heard of him. They _all_ have. He can save her, he can save all of them.

He stumbles back in his surprise and they both tumble to the stone in a heap. 

She feels his hand on her shoulder. But it doesn’t go wandering like Jabba’s or his courtiers’ do. Rather, he just helps her up with a soft, shy laugh. 

“You’ve heard of me?” he asks, his tone softening, his words curving around her almost protectively.

“Master Skywalker. You’re a hero,” she whispers, drawing his hand away from her shoulder and clasping it between her own. “Everyone’s heard of you. Even here, in Jabba’s palace.”

A hint of a smile twitches the corners of Luke’s mouth. “I’m going to get us out of here,” he promises her.

Oola laughs and shakes her head. “I can’t leave. Jabba will hunt me down.”

“I’ll protect you. You could—you could join the Rebellion,” he offers, touching her shoulder, squeezing gently. 

Oola lifts her head. His eyes are clear blue, like the Rylothian skies of her youth. They ask her to trust him, those sky-eyes. There’s something deep inside this boy—something powerful and ancient—that Oola does want to trust. She’s felt this sort of power before, felt faint stirrings of it within herself and others she’s come in contact with. That dormant voice within her has woken up and it calls out to the power that flows through Luke’s blood. 

“I won’t leave them behind,” Oola says, dropping her hands. “The other girls. They are all like me. Slaves stolen, trafficked. Their bones litter the graveyard behind the palace. They’ve been discarded, forgotten, but I remember them all. I won’t leave any of them behind.”

Luke nods slowly. “We can save your friends,” he promises her. 

“I’ll help you then,” Oola says, then grows still, heaving a sigh. “But until Jabba’s guards come back, we’re stuck.”

“Why were you sent here?” Luke asks her, scooting closer. 

Oola glances away from the sharp sting of memories best left forgotten. “I—I disobeyed,” she sighs, resting her hands in her lap. “The last time, it was only for a few days. But this time…” 

She trails off, thinking of the other dancers. The singers, the performers. Will they miss her once she’s gone? Or will they all carry on, as Jabba fills the empty spot that had once been Oola’s with another poor, frightened girl? 

A black-gloved hand lands lightly on Oola’s bare arm, above a darkening bruise that mars her green skin. Luke’s touch is gentle, _kind_. It’s been so long since Oola last felt touch that didn’t promise violence. She hardly remembers the last time a hand touched her that didn’t intend to hurt her. 

She turns toward him, reaching for the sash of his robe, meaning to show him her gratitude for his kindness. The way Jabba’s courtiers had instructed her. But he backs away from her, his kind blue eyes widening in shock. 

Oola tilts her head at him, taking in the shape of him. “Let me,” she says.

Luke studies her for a moment, searching her eyes, before he reaches for her, drawing her closer. 

Oola leans forward—even as she pushes all of her training out of her head—and slides her lips over his. The kiss is gentle, far gentler than any kiss she’s given or received in Jabba’s court. Luke’s gloved hand slides to her back and pulls her close, almost cradling her against him. Oola smiles against his mouth; she’s never been kissed like this before. Cradled in his arms as if she means something to him. 

When they separate, Luke’s eyes are darker and his lips are soft and wet. His eyelashes flutter over his ruddy cheeks and his dark blond hair feathers across his forehead. He’s pretty. If Jabba had had an inclination toward men, Oola thinks he’d probably have kept Luke in his menagerie in a place of esteem. Alongside her, maybe, if she hadn’t outlived her usefulness at that point. 

“Are you—” Luke starts.

She interrupts him, smiling. She doesn’t want to hear any protests or questions. She just wants him to kiss her again. “Kiss me again,” Oola demands of him. 

Luke cuts off any lingering questions and leans forward, scooping her back into his arms. As he lays them both out on the cot and smothers her face and neck with light kisses, Oola wonders if he’s ever had a woman before. 

He seems to sense the question burgeoning in her mind. 

“I’m not…inexperienced, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Luke huffs. He tugs off his robe and lets it settle over them. 

Oola laughs. She can’t help it. “You’re cute, Luke Skywalker.”

Luke resumes kissing her, letting his flesh hand wander over the bare skin where her flimsy outfit doesn’t cover her. He pushes the material away from her, letting his hand go exploring. His touch is cold, though not unwelcome, fingers trailing up and down her sides until gooseflesh puckers her skin.

Oola shivers against him—maybe a bit more than necessary—and she feels him laugh silently against her. His fingers stroke down over her belly and then lower, between her legs. 

Their bodies are mostly compatible, so Oola expects he’ll want to get started, but he just keeps touching her. She wonders if he’s afraid to go any further.

“Am I pleasing to you?” she asks. 

“Hm? Yes,” Luke says, sounding surprised. His hand stills over her thigh. “Why?”

“You’re just…taking an awful long time,” Oola says, stroking her fingers idly through his shaggy hair. 

“Oh,” Luke says. “Would you like me to stop?”

“Not really,” she says. “It’s nice. I’ve just never been with anyone before who took their time like this. To explore and touch and feel.”

“Oh,” he says again. The melody of his voice sounds rich and vibrant in her head. “Here. Let me show you…”

He scoots down the length of Oola’s body, until she can feel his warm breath on her hip. He gently pushes her legs apart, then settles between them. She looks down at him, at his mop of hair and the intent look on his face, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth. 

Luke leans in and presses a row of kisses down her inner thigh. Then he kisses back up, so slowly that Oola begins to ache. 

She’s not even entirely sure what she’s aching for him to do until he _does_ it, flicking his tongue out and licking a stripe down her center. Oola lets out a soft gasp and jerks her hips against his mouth. Her fingers tighten in his hair for a moment before she lets up. 

He parts her open, like peeling back the petals of a flower, and resumes licking at her. Oola grips his cloak tightly in her hands, until her knuckles begin to throb painfully. She rubs against his mouth, seeking more of his lips and tongue, and he rewards her, pressing back against her. Luke suckles on her this time, teasing out this feeling she can’t comprehend. She can feel something flowering deep within her, some unfamiliar sensation.

Luke’s hands stroke over her thighs as he keeps licking her, circling his tongue, pressing into her. Oola buries her hands in his soft hair and clings onto him as she rides his mouth, rocking into him. Into the feeling that threatens to burst forth.

It comes on like a loss of control. Oola hates not being in control and yet it asks her to give herself to it. 

She trusts it, like she trusts Luke. 

So Oola lets go, into a burst of blinding white light. 

When Oola opens her eyes, she’s lying on the cot, draped only in his black robe. She sits up slowly, looks around, takes stock of her surroundings. Luke is sitting on the end of the cot, clad in only a pair of dark trousers. 

She wonders if he took care of himself while she was floating in the haze of her afterglow. She thinks about offering her body to him, to partake in, but he looks troubled. Pensive.

His head is bowed and his hands are resting on his knees. 

“Luke?” she calls out to him. 

His eyes blink open and he turns to her. “How’d you sleep?” he asks, teasingly, a laugh curling his tone. 

“How long was I out?” Oola tugs the robe around her shoulders and shoves her arms into the billowing sleeves.

“Not too long,” he says. “But you looked so peaceful, I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“And you look…troubled,” Oola says, offering Luke a small smile. 

“Not troubled,” he says. “Thinking. I’ve received word from my friends. About our rescue mission.”

Oola crawls over to him and settles beside him on the end of the cot. “A rescue?” she asks.

“Captain Han Solo,” Luke says. “He was frozen in carbonite and brought here, to Jabba.”

“I’ve seen him,” Oola says, touching Luke’s arm. “Jabba keeps him on his wall. Like a piece of art.”

Luke glances down at her hand. “Will you join us?” he asks. 

Oola thinks about the green and blue of Ryloth. She thinks about the cave she grew up in, with her parents and sisters. If she picks the winning side, maybe she could find her family. If she joined Luke, she could work alongside him and Captain Solo and Princess Leia to help others who’d had their freedoms stripped away. Oola can imagine, even if only for a few seconds, a galaxy free of evil.

She reaches down and slides her hand into Luke’s, twining their fingers together. Squeezing tightly. “Yes,” she says. “I will.”

A smile graces Luke’s face and his blue eyes seem to sparkle even in the dark. “Welcome to the Rebellion, Oola.”


End file.
